Saturday, September 27, 2008

Once You Go Black...

Well, you know what they say.

I used to be a Tim Horton's Double Double girl. Two cream. Two sugar. I went to Weight Watchers for a short time and the leader told us she used to take two and two in her coffee, but she whittled her way down to black. I thought, "No way in Hell can I do that." I have a cousin who takes Triple Triple in her Extra Large Tim Horton's coffee, and she is not overweight. I will cut down in other areas.

When I started working up in Accounting, my supervisor (now great friend) was a One and One, also known as Regular, at Timmy's. Ew. But she was such a healthy person in her eating habits, so she sucked me into the One and One realm. And I got used to it.

My sister got a job at Starbucks. Starbucks coffee is nothing like Timmy Ho's. As a matter of fact, if you read the label or the web site, I don't believe they actually disclose what kind of beans are in their coffee. Anyway, whenever I visited her at work or at home (which was the same thing, she practically lived there when she wasn't working), I drank Starbucks coffee. Actually, I drank latt├ęs and mochas at first. She expanded my coffee horizons. I tried the Guatemala Antiqua. I tried the Caffe Verona. I tried the Sumatra. Komodo Dragon. Yukon. French Roast. She worked me up from mild-medium blends to bold-dark roasts. And I liked it. I even gave up the sugar. But I didn't like the filmy feeling in my mouth when the coffee contained cream. She suggested I try it black. I couldn't. But I did downgrade to milk. One morning, hubby and I made our freshly ground Starbucks and discovered we were out of milk. And Irish Cream. What were we to do? Needing our fix, we drank it black. It was bold and strong, but the flavour that lingered was enjoyable. So we had a second cup instead of going to the store for milk.

Slowly, we weaned ourselves off the milk carton. We tasted the different subtleties in the different blends. We became coffee connoisseurs. We drink Fair Trade coffees. We grind our own beans. I am proud to say we are now Black. And loving it.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Look Ma, No Tan Lines

My husband doesn't like my profile picture. He doesn't understand. I am not photogenic. Either my eyes are doing something weird, or my smile looks constipated, or my mouth is open. I had a hell of a time finding a half-decent facebook profile pic, and even in that one I am half-drunk with a goofy smile. Sadly it IS one of my better photos.

So in the interest of full disclosure, the profile pic I am currently using is not me. I am neither bronze, nor headless, although I do often find myself naked. It is not even a bronze cast of me, although the likeness is remarkable. I found the statue at Telus World of Science during a fundraiser. I liked it because it resembled me. I actually fondled it while holding a glass of red wine and having my picture taken. But it was too disturbing to post us together, because it was hard to tell us apart. (I was the pasty one on the left with the wine.) There was another statue, but it had a penis. I had my picture taken with that one as well (fondling it, of course) but I didn't use it because, well, I didn't want to be mistaken for a chyx-with-dicks feminist. Not that there's anything wrong with that....I do have a mild case of penis envy. Who wouldn't want to pee standing up anytime, anywhere? Not having to make a basketweave of toilet paper squares over public toilet seats. Not having to squat. Not finding an empty roll at the end of a pee.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Anyway, I hope you don't mind staring at her brazen bronzeness until I reach the holy grail of finding a picture of me that doesn't suck.

Wish I Were Here...

Playa Del Carmen

This is one of my favourite photos. It was taken during our vacation to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico in March of this year. I have a hard time relaxing (even when stretched out on the couch like a slug I am stressed and unrelaxed). This day in particular, my husband went out jet-skiing in the ocean, while our daughter and I walked down to a semi-secluded beach to play in the sand and watch for Daddy. The water was so beautifully tropical, the sand was warm and soft. I sat and watched our daughter build a sandcastle and collect shells and rocks, and we waved to Daddy when he zipped back and forth on the jet-ski. I felt very relaxed, snapping pictures of her as she ran to the edge of the waves in her new red sarong, her hair whipping gently in the breeze. Every time I look at those photos I remember how peaceful and relaxed that moment was.

**First picture posted (ever) as part of Candid Carrie's Friday Foto Fiesta!

Saturday, September 20, 2008

With This Ring...

Our daughter frequently asks us, "When are you guys getting married?" For our 15-year anniversary yesterday, she "married" us with two rings she picked out the day before from the dentist's office. Then the three of us went out to a lovely three-course dinner. It's not for lack of trying, as two wedding dates have come and gone. Getting married is a huge project of coordination, organization, and frustration. Not to mention the expense.

Rewind eleven years ago (before our daughter was born). We were young. Barely in the workforce after university (read: poor!) with student loans, a high-rent townhouse and a yen to be married. We attended the Vancouver Wedding Fair, picked up samples, ideas and a wedding planner book. We made lists. Colours, venues, menus, guests. I tried on dresses. We argued about costs. Our guest list ballooned. We both have large families. Our close family members numbered over 120 and we hadn't invited any friends yet. We grew resentful. We broke up. I moved in with my dad for three months. We talked on the phone every night. We missed each other. We got back together.

We got better jobs and eventually decided to start a family. We moved into a two-bedroom condo in the city when we were four-months pregnant. Closer to work for both of us and far enough away from our families to be independent. Our beautiful daughter was born. We wanted to get married again, share a last name. We down-scaled our wedding plans to a small, intimate gathering of 80 family members. We booked the banquet room at a golf course, paid the deposit, started planning. Took out a $10,000 line of credit to pay for the wedding, since I wasn't working. Decided halfway into it that we just couldn't afford it. Babies are expensive! The golf course wouldn't give our deposit back, so we told them to cook up $500 worth of appetizers and we invited some people to come and eat them.

By then we were together for seven years. We had a family. We were committed to each other. So we gave up on the wedding and spent what very little money we had to buy our first house. Get out of the city, get a yard, invest in our future. We joked that we were doing everything backwards: have a baby, buy a house, get married.

Well, our baby is nine, we're in our second house...

I think it's time we get married. But now it's not so important to have the whole fam-damily join us. It's personal. Just the three of us. So we will probably elope or have a destination wedding. If some of our family can join us, that would be great, but we're going to plan what works for us. Our options are:

- Las Vegas
- somewhere tropical
- on a cruise somewhere tropical
- City Hall
- or something local

Plus we have all the linens, toasters, gravy boats and steak knives we need. What we NEED are margaritas, palm trees and a sandy beach. :)

Thanks for journeying with me through time. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog. And by regular I mean twice a month. I'm working on that. See Procrastination.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Flaming Bag of Pooooooo...

I am somewhat recovered from last week, in which I was sick with an affliction I have named Angry Yellow Diarrhea, formerly known as Acid Poo. It was, as the name implies, out for vengeance. Um. Ow.

I dragged my butt to work each day, where I am unable to do anything above a number one without the whole office knowing. Ah, even then you can hear me tinkle, but it's an acceptable noise. If the toilets were lower and I could make a better seal between my bum and the seat, you wouldn't even hear that, but alas, wheelchair-accessible toilets are not ergonomically designed for the height-impaired. At 5'2", only my toes touch the floor. If I plant my feet flat on the floor, I will be crapping on the seat. I call shenanigans! Discrimination against short people! :)

Luckily, I have access to the "Executive Washroom" upstairs. If I coordinate it just right (aka hold it til lunchtime), I can use it when no one is upstairs and I can shart to my heart's content.

Ahhhh, my kingdom for a bran muffin...